A Dog From Hell
by daftrosh
Summary: Ava Marwood never broke the rules. Sherlock/OFC.
1. CHAPTER ONE

**It must be known, before I say anything else, that I am not entirely familiar with the original Sherlock Holmes books. I know, I know. Sacrilege to be in a fandom based only around watching a jumped up Hollywood box office hit film and three 90 minute, modernised episodes by the BBC. But trust me, they're on my To-Read List. And my To-Buy List for that matter. So this story is very much an arms length away from the original canon. I do do my research though, thoroughly, and if there's something I'm unsure about, I'll google it until I am. So please don't let my lack of original knowledge deter you. This story is also completely unfinished and I'm not even sure what direction it will end up going in but rest assured there will be plenty of good stuff in further chapters. **

**I own nothing apart from 'Ava Marwood' and she herself is loosely based on Irene Adler, though tailored to fit the modern bill and my own personal preferences. Everything else belongs, accordingly, to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_. _Oh, and the title of the story is taken from the Bukowski poem 'Love Is A Dog From Hell'.**

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Ava Marwood operated under several rules that bore high importance to her field of work : One, always work alone. Two, never speak to anyone about your profession. Three, always wear gloves. Four, never carry any weaponry. Five, always work during the night. Six, never be seen. And finally... Seven, _never_ break the rules.

Should these rules be broken, one would face incarceration and imprisonment for a long, undefined amount of time. And Ava Marwood never broke the rules because Ava Marwood was not a lady suited to prison and because she was very, very good at her job. A professional thief of her calibre, after all, had to be.

"Drop me off just here, thank you." Ava handed over a ten pound note fished from the inside of her bra and smiled sweetly, sliding legs first out of the taxi.

She watched as it drove away before looking over her surroundings. She was three streets away, almost a mile and a half. Not far at all and plenty of time. Ducking down an alleyway, she walked quickly, shredding clothing easily and shoving them into her backpack. The tight black jeans were tucked into black non-descript boots. Her black long sleeved jumper covered her arms right to her wrists. She tied her bottle red hair back into a ponytail and fitted a brunette wig carefully over the top. The route was long, longer than necessary, and full of twists and turns down other alleyways and over a few fences but Ava thought the sacrifice to be essential. It always was.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged at the back of the garden of a large Victorian detached house. It was vacant except for one older gentleman of whom she'd been observing for just over a week prior. Victor Stephens, a popular artist with a lot of money and an appetite for handsome young men. It wouldn't've surprised her to find he bathed in the money he earnt from such mediocre pieces of art. Mediocre in Ava's opinion anyway. He was a man born into wealth who'd chosen an easy lifestyle and Ava hated him for it. Carefully she knelt down after scaling the fence and fixed her wig with a few more bobby pins. She'd watched the artist packing a suitcase with a man younger, and prettier, than she. The straw hat and folded khaki shorts told her it was a holiday they were pursuing together. The timing couldn't've been more perfect.

Two days later and the lights hadn't been turned on for almost forty-eight hours. They had left.

Like most Victorian houses, the windows opened upwards, or downwards, so one pane covered the other. The task of prying the window open was so mundane that Ava almost thought this particular hit to be too boring to go ahead with. But she slid in regardless, wiping the bottom of her shoes before they hit the ground, and moved with feline grace straight towards for the bedroom, bypassing the living room and kitchen until later. As she suspected, the place was littered with expensive jewellery and several separate safes containing undisclosed sums of money. A burglar's wet dream. Quickly she placed the money and jewellery within her backpack and continued.

There wasn't a hit in the history of hits that could've prepared Ava for what she found in the living room downstairs. There, lying perfectly in a pool of his own dried blood, was the artist. His eyes were open, glazed with death. His torso littered with several stab wounds. It was a perfect mess. Ava almost screamed, clamping a hand over her mouth as she stumbled back. _Of course_, she suddenly thought, her mind swimmingly violently. The alarm. There was none. This had been set up and Victor had been murdered and if she didn't leave the house soon, there was a chance she'd be suspect number one. Without another thought, she slipped back through the window at the back of the house and closed it behind herself carefully. She crept across the garden, hoisted herself over the fence and ran until she was out of range, ran until her chest felt tight and her legs ached. Ran until she was all the way home, safely locked away in her flat.

Three days ticked by and Ava kept a very low profile, her fingers only lingering as she moved through the early Saturday market masses. Lingering but never taking. She needed to be utterly sure before taking the risk. Whilst eating a late breakfast, she saw the news report detailing about a local London artist's murder in his own home. The theft was not mentioned and Ava breathed a sigh of relief. Although she already knew that the police would suspect it was the murderer who stole as well as killed. Regardless, her coast had been cleared and she was free, once again, to plan her next adventure.

Ten minutes after the report ended, Ava received a text that made her eyes narrow.

_You and I need to talk. Meet me at the cafe at the end of Baker St today at noon. You know where it is. SH_

_

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_**What's the verdict? Good? Bad? Not even bothered? Let me know.**


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**Here it is. Chapter two. Still getting a feel for the character's involved so forgive me if it's slow and a little boring. There will be further, deeper studying into the tenuous relationship between Ava and Sherlock later one including where it began etc.**

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Two weeks without an interesting case and Sherlock thought he may lose his mind with the intense boredom that had begun to seep into his bones. It was always the same when the city dulled like this and the triumphant need to exercise his brain overtook his every sense. He longed so painfully for a thrill that his days, hours, minutes were filled with thinking of nothing else. It was an effort to occupy such mundane things like eating and sleeping despite John's worrying whiney speeches. The floorboard where under he kept his secret tin thrummed to the point he thought he could visibly see the board itself moving up and down frantically, tempting him. And he perhaps he would've were it not for Lestrade, and John for that matter, he may've thrown himself down onto his hands and knees and ripped the piece of wood up to get to what he kept so quietly hidden.

But now. _Now_ there was something to make his blood pulsate excitedly inside of his veins. He knew it was coming and felt the thrill of the chase building within him before it had even approached. And even so, the floorboards had ceased their thrumming – though the noise never strayed far from his conscious thought. Lestrade had contacted him almost immediately after the body was discovered with the details.

A murder.

Chaotic. Frenzied. Violent.

Deliciously exciting.

Sherlock leapt at the chance to be involved. And then, as it always should be, the game was on.

The adventure had taken he and John thus far and the deductions lead him to a wall which was near impossible to scale. Involving a long term friendly enemy, though Sherlock would hardly describe her as friendly, on a case was not high on his list of priorities but had proved to be vital in venturing any further with solving the case. Sherlock glowered at the very idea as his leg jittered and his long fingers crept around the hot cup of coffee in front of him. He welcomed the burning sensation through his finger tips like the sting of that first, glorious snort after so long. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep the smell of burning chip fat, old men and women and human perspiration. They only opened once again to settle on the door as it chimed open.

He recognised her immediately. Her face was a picture he'd long since memorised and although her hair was now a deep crimson red and the nose ring a new feature – perhaps not the cleverest for a woman of her profession – she was still exactly the same. He didn't even attempt to make an effort in order to alert her of his presence in the corner of the cafe but just waited, instead, until her eyes landed on him as she scanned the room. When they finally did, if there was emotion behind her own recognition, she didn't show it. Rather she turned to the barista behind the register and ordered a drink before navigating her way towards his table, dropping down in the plastic seats with a sigh.

"Really, Sherlock," She began, her lips curling in distaste. "You could've chosen a better place to rendezvous."

"Substance over style," He ignored her as she rolled her eyes. Sherlock didn't bother to conceal the real reason why he had brought her and began talking before she'd even settled. "There's been a murder."

"Am I the murderer?" She asked without missing a beat, eyes narrowed and lips curved upwards.

"No, Ava, but I'm sure you know more about this man than I do. His house was burgled. Money and jewellery was taken, as well as a number of extremely expensive paintings."

Ava allowed none of this information to register on her face and thanked the waitress for bringing her coffee over. She stirred it listlessly for a moment and added two sugars before stirring some more. "Oh really. How expensive?" The tone she'd adopted was nonchalant but Ava knew better than to try and act so casually around Sherlock.

"Very," She met his eyes and he held her gaze steadily. "Although any idiot can see the burglaries aren't connected."

"How so?" Ava humoured him, staring around the cafe idly.

"For one, all the jewellery and money taken was from the master bedroom only and the locks to each safe were replaced carefully and relocked," He attempted to catch her eye here but she avoided him and instead focused all of her interest on the overweight chef cooking a fried egg in a dirty pan. She was playing hard to get. With a sigh, he continued. "But Stephens had money hidden all over the place. In fact, there was a rather large amount stored in the spare room. The paintings, however, were taken from most, if not all, rooms and without thought too. They took everything, even the most useless of pictures worth nothing more than a pound or two in a charity shop. Now why would the same burglar be so careful in one room and so reckless in others?" Sherlock paused and sat forwards with his fingers clasped in front of him. "You forget just how well I know you, Ava Marwood."

The domineering way in which he said her full name made her sit up and mirror his movements. She all but snarled at him. "And you forget how well I know _you_, Sherlock Holmes. And exactly what it is that you're trying to imply. This has absolutely nothing to do with me," Ava stood to leave in a flurry of red hair and furrowed eyebrows until Sherlock placed a hand on her wrist and slid his fingers so they locked around the narrow bone that jutted out. Ava stopped and looked down, her gaze slowly peeling to meet the perpetrators. "Sherlock," She said quietly, evenly, through clenched teeth. "Do you really think that's wise?"

His eyes narrowed. "Yes," He daren't question her abilities to easily overturn tables and people alike, himself included if he was feeling sluggish, but this was imperative to the case and he wasn't going to leave without the information he needed. "Now sit down."

In one simple and quick movement, Ava twisted and ripped her wrist free of his grasp. It was so much easier when people least expected it. "No," She said sternly. "As I said, and you know I hate to repeat myself, Sherlock. This has _nothing_ to do with me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some shopping to do." And quite suddenly she swished towards the door, her coat billowing out behind her where she hadn't done it up around her waist.

Sherlock scrambled out of his seat, pursuing her hotly. His eyes were still narrowed, lips drawn in a thin fractious line. His body folded neatly to slip through the crowds pushing their way along the London streets and he buttoned up his coat as he moved, turned the collar up with a dark frown. He could see the back of her head, the way her fingers carelessly picked up little pieces from market stalls and didn't set them down again. He trained his eye to watch as she lifted things without paying for them. With a quick step, Sherlock ducked down a side route not littered with tourists and locals and business folk alike and almost ran to catch up before emerging somewhere back into the crowd in step with the woman. "Ava," He hissed and took a hold of her elbow, stopping her in her tracks and forcing her face him suddenly. "For God's sake. I need your _help_."

From beneath the lion's man of curls and varying hues of red, Ava looked up with a smile that made his jaw clench irritably. "Well, Sherlock. You should've just said so in the first place. Honestly now."

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**Verdicts?**


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**So now I have a vague idea of the direction in which this story will go. But it's always subject to change I suppose! I hope you enjoy this and I hope I'm mapping out a clear outline of the kind of woman Ava is and what she's capable of.**

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"Will you _stop_ that?" Sherlock hissed as he and Ava walked through Borough Market. He was already agitated at being dragged across town to the market by her and this was only adding to his rising levels of irritability.

"Stop what?" She stopped at a stall to inspect several different apples – touching them and smelling them, turning them over and eyeing their colours. Without another moment's notice, she pocketed three into her handbag and carried on walking as though it was completely normal.

"That," he hissed again and jerked his finger towards her bag which was beginning to fill nicely with her pilfering. "It's distracting and I'd rather not have to run through this crowd of idiots when you get caught."

"Oh, Sherlock," Ava's face contorted into a patronising frown, her head shaking from side to side. She had paused in her step to emphasise her point. "I don't get caught, you know that." And then she carried on walking.

While Ava Marwood never broke her own rules regarding her profession, Sherlock Holmes was the only person in the entire catalogue of her life and career to know almost all of her secrets without her ever telling him a single thing. He knew her trademarks, the people she targeted, the objects she targeted, her chosen methods of breaking and entering, the black marketers whom she sold her goods too. He knew the ins and outs of her profession almost better than she did and the idea infuriated her. Whenever she was presented with a moment to belittle his ignorance, she delighted in it like a child with a new puppy.

In this instance, she chose to comply with his request and lifted her bag back up to her shoulder, nodding with a dramatic sigh.

"Thank you," he relented, his features softening the tiniest amount. "Now can we please get back to Baker Street?"

"God, I suppose so. And I'm guessing there will be no food in your fridge, just severed pieces of anatomy. Nothing in your cupboards except for beakers and Bunsen burners. No wine in your wine rack or coffee in your coffee jar. Great. Wonderful. Yes, take us to Baker Street, land of the plenty." Ava complained, her arms gesticulating madly, as Sherlock flagged down a taxi and ushered her in.

"Actually," Sherlock slid in next to her, leaving enough room to fit another person between them, and gave her the most distasteful look. "There _is _coffee. And maybe even food for that matter. If John's been shopping recently." He looked smugly out of the window, pleased at being able to prove her and her assumptions wrong.

"John? Who's that? Your boyfriend?" She could become so petty when she was hungry.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "No," he said and drew his lips into a thin line. "He's my flatmate and my work colleague."

"Work colleague? I never had you down as man that worked in pairs."

"I'm not, but for the sake of not having to look at Anderson's ridiculous face or Sally Donovan's scuffed knees, I really don't mind having him with me on cases."

"What's he like then, this "John"?" The taxi trundled along through the traffic of London. The usual twenty minute journey was like to take forty at this rate. Ava sighed heavily and rested her cheek against her palm as she looked at the pedestrians and thought about who she wished she could pick pocket.

"Ex-army doctor. Had a psychosomatic limp until he met me," Sherlock found himself sounding oddly pleased at this and he looked over to see if Ava was watching him, or even listening. He was disappointed slightly to see her gazing out of the window instead. Quietly he removed his leather gloves and continued talking. "Sees a therapist occasionally. Has an obscenely boring girlfriend called Sarah. Quite short. You'd like him. If I remember, you had a penchant for short men."

Ava almost choked and Sherlock barely suppressed a laugh. "Jesus, that was a while ago," she waved her hand dismissively. "Besides. That was a random, throwaway comment I made during a particularly drunken evening at university. It hardly bears any relevance these days. Why you'd remember _that_ and not the Earth orbiting around the Sun is beyond me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, as riveting as that trip down memory lane is, John is fairly agreeable regardless. He doesn't seem to mind my violin playing or the severed pieces of anatomy in the fridge."

Ava looked at him, her face painted in mock-surprise. "He actually puts up with your violin playing? What, that terrible racket that sounds like cats fucking?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the vulgarity and then pointed an accusatory finger at her. "I'm a very well renowned violinist and besides, John seems to like it if anything."

"So far I've deducted from this John that he is deaf as well as stupid," Ava laughed dryly. "How oddly intriguing."

In attempt to hide his fury, Sherlock turned to look out of the window and remained silent for the duration of the cab journey. He could almost fee Ava's smirk burning an upturned semi-circle against his skin the more he ignored her but he refused to relent until his mood shifted. She was, after all, vital to him and the case.

221b was as it always was as the taxi sidled up to the curb. Squashed between flats and cafes but still managing to stick out like a sore thumb in the crowd of buildings. Sherlock paid the fair and climbed out of the taxi, his long limbs stretching and extending, the joints clicking wearily in their sockets. He waited for Ava without saying a word and only barely left his hand on the open door in order to let her in. Inside the flat the air hung low and hot, a result of John growing bored and angry with opening the windows only to find Sherlock had closed them again an hour later.

"Well," Ava murmured as they ascending into the living room. She unbuttoned her coat and removed her black beret. "This place hasn't changed at all, has it? Do you still keep your Tin Of Wonders under the floorboards?" She asked with one hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised tauntingly. She was the definition of luxurious in a high waisted skirt that smoothed so effortlessly over her hips with a crisp white collared shirt tucked into the waistband, the buttons open loosely around her neck and barely concealing the lacy bra beneath. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in crimson waves. It was a sight to floor any man. A man like John, or even Mycroft for that matter, and Ava knew perfectly well that she could use her prowess to her advantage against the male race. But the only difference between Sherlock and the rest of his gender was that Sherlock didn't care for aesthetics. Her tits bursting out of a top made no difference to what he wanted and he how he was going to get it.

However, he froze upon hearing her words. Only for a second in which his shoulder tensed and his eyes narrowed. And then he regained himself as quickly as he had lost himself. They had cut a thin line across his icy exterior, one that he was eager to cut back. "An addict is always an addict, Ava. I thought you of all people would know that." His eyes pierced hers sharply and the moments silence that descended over them was so palpable Sherlock thought he may cough from the heat of it clogging his throat so suddenly.

It was Ava's turn to narrow her eyes this time. "Oh yes," she smiled calmly. "I know very well." She looked as though she may something else, something sharp and cutting. But she didn't and Sherlock's chest swelled a little in relief. Instead she said, "so what do you want to know about Victor Stephens? Can't we hurry this along so that I may go home and make my dinner."

"Ah yes!" Sherlock sprung up and paced into the living room towards the arm chair. "I want to know everything. All the information you have to offer. Starting with why you robbed him and how much you took."

Ava sighed and sat down, crossing her legs neatly one over the other. "I hit his particular house for several reasons, Sherlock. One, I hate his art. Two, I hate his kind. Three, all of his boyfriends were much prettier than me and any of my boyfriends. And four, he was incredibly rich and that's always a major factor in any house I burgle." She smirked.

Sherlock put his head in his hands and then looked up. "The _real_ reasons, Ava." He scolded.

"They were real! Okay, fine, Jesus. You want an explanation. Look. I don't like people who are born into wealth and do nothing but take the high road and ride the coat tails of everyone before them. Which is exactly what he did. That and yes, he was very rich. And despite whatever anyone tells you, money does indeed buy you happiness and happiness is all anybody wants in this world. Happiness and fame I suppose."

"Okay," Sherlock sighed, ignoring her quips mostly. "What can you tell me about him? I know you, you must've been watching his house before you made your move. What did you see?"

"Well, he had a lot of different boyfriends. I assume they were boyfriends. Young men mostly. Incredibly good looking, chiselled and model like. Something tells me they were paid for because why any of them would want to gallivant off with an old codger like him is beyond me. He was going on holiday. Or about to, anyway. That's when I hit his house because the lights had been off for two days and I assumed he and his latest slice had gone jet-setting off to wherever."

The information processed in Sherlock's mind like a filing system. He took all of the useful bits and filed them away carefully until he would need again. The rest he discarded of easily as though he was simply pressing the metaphorical back space key and deleting it. As the cogs whirred relentlessly, he formed an ideal train of suspects like a spider diagram. Everything was connected. It could've been one of the boyfriends, but most likely not. Too obvious. A jilted ex, perhaps. Just a jilted man, perhaps. The possibilities were endless. He looked up at Ava. "Anything else?"

She thought for a moment. "No," she shook her head slowly. "Although... I do remember watching one night and he had a particularly vocally violent argument over the phone. I couldn't hear what he was saying but afterwards he looked quite perturbed and anxious. Then started making other phone calls with lots of wild hand gestures. But that could mean anything. Maybe he owed someone money, which would hardly be a problem considering how rich he was. Perhaps it was nothing."

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth. He pursed lips, his jaw resting in the L-shaped groove his clasped fingers created. Humming audibly, he let it all sink in. "He was definitely up to something. Drugs, maybe. Fraudulence. Something. This is going to take time and research," He jumped up off the sofa and waltzed into the kitchen. "Coffee?" He called to Ava as she stood and bent to collect her coat.

"No, thank you. You've got your information. I'm off. It's been wonderful, truly, Sherlock. It's always lovely having such a despicable dog from my past drop back into my life but please, next time, give me some warning first."

"I don't think so," Sherlock spoke with authority as he strolled back into the living room. "You're not going anywhere. You're the only person who can possibly help me solve this case. And unless you want your manic little secret divulged to the Scotland Yard, you better stay put."

"You _arsehole_," Ava conceded, her eyes narrowed to angry little slits. "How dare you emotionally black mail me. I could have the police round here in seconds on a drugs search and with my careful directions, they'd find a lot more on you than just Intent To Supply that's for sure."

"Well," Sherlock smirked. "Would you look at that. We are both in a position to black mail the other quite accordingly. You may as well stay put because whatever the outcome of your leaving, we'd both be going down."

Ava all but started screaming and waving her hands around in a fit of wild, frenzied anger as she looked at him. Instead she clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might break it and threw her coat down on the sofa. "You are a naughty little _wanker _and I hate you," Ava flopped down and crossed her arms. "Get me that coffee and tell me where the hell we start and where your take away menus are."

Sherlock turned back into the kitchen, laughing so hard he thought he might fall over.

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**Wot do you fink, luvlies? I'm rather enjoying writing their snarky, sarcastic relationship. Give me your criticisms if you think I'm doing something wrong and I will try and correct it.**


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